Promises Kept
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Lacroix returns to Toronto to keep a final promise.


=====================================================================  
Promises Kept  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) December 31, 1998  
=====================================================================  
  
The black sedan glided to a halt in the stone house's small parking  
area, the gravel scrunching under its wheels. The electric motor  
whined softly down into silence. Dried leaves skittered across the  
drive, making whispering tick-tick noises and leaping into sudden  
skirls with the wind. Clouds scudded across the almost-full October  
moon, causing shadows to flit across the ground.  
  
Lucien Lacroix, hands resting lightly on the wheel, contemplated the  
house's stone facade. *He* was there -- Lacroix could feel it, just  
barely, at the edges of his perception.  
  
The golden thread that had been the connection between them for  
centuries had been nearly severed those sixty years ago; nearly, but  
not quite. When Nicholas had regained his mortality the connection  
had thinned to the merest whisper, but had somehow remained as the  
faintest of tugs on Lacroix's mind.  
  
He had never told Nicholas. He had kept his silence and stayed away  
as he had promised, leaving his son to his mortal life and love. He  
was, if nothing else, a man of his word.  
  
Until now.  
  
For weeks the thread had been fading away, growing ever more tenuous,  
like a ship loosed from its moorings drifting away out to sea.  
  
Lacroix had always refused to acknowledge the loss of his son; why  
then, come to view the utter finality of it? For what he felt now was  
a loss not just to daylight, but to death.  
  
Nicholas was dying.  
  
Just thinking the words angered him, saddened him, made him want to  
strike at someone or something. He was utterly powerless against the  
tide of time; there was nothing he could do to hold it back.  
  
Lacroix ruthlessly brought his raging emotions under control and got  
out of his car. With an effort he drew the cloak of humanity around  
himself and knocked on the front door.  
  
It was late; the woman who answered didn't want to admit him until he  
exerted some gentle mental pressure. Once inside, he saw that the  
house was spacious and well-appointed. It didn't look like a nursing  
home, save for the utilitarian elevator tucked discreetly under the  
mahogany staircase and the handrails along the paneled corridors. It  
was a haven for the wealthy elderly, but it still stank of medication  
and illness underneath the facade of luxury.  
  
Unerringly his gaze was drawn to the upper floor. The thread led that  
way and he followed it unerringly, leaving the woman seated at her  
reception desk gazing blankly at the unsigned guest register.  
  
He walked softly down the carpeted hall and halted outside a door. It  
was slightly ajar, and he could hear a man's voice murmuring inside.  
There were three hearts beating there, two strong and sure, one  
hesitant and weak. The man was relating some petty event; Lacroix  
could hear no response. He knocked.  
  
There was the sound of a chair scraping back, then a man appeared at  
the door, looking out inquiringly. "Yes?" He was middle-aged, with a  
pleasant face, thinning brown hair and wide blue eyes.  
  
"I wish to see Mr. Knight."  
  
"Dad? I'm sorry, do I know you...?" His voice trailed off as  
recognition dawned, turning into apprehension and fear.  
'You're...him," he whispered.  
  
So Nicholas had told his family. Lacroix nodded. "Yes."  
  
The man looked over his shoulder and said, "Nick? Keep your  
grandfather company for a bit, okay? I have to talk to someone."  
  
"'Kay, Dad," said a teenaged voice.  
  
Nicholas' son edged into the hallway and shut the door. He said,  
"Down here," and led the way to a small sitting room at the end of  
the hall. He sat in a chair and waited for Lacroix to follow suit. He  
watched Lacroix cross his long legs and sit back to return the gaze.  
They stared at each other for a long moment.  
  
Nicholas' son was perhaps fifty or fifty-five years old, just  
beginning to slide into the comfortable fleshiness of middle age. He  
had his mother's eyes, Lacroix judged, and her level, considering  
gaze. The man's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and Lacroix  
could hear his accelerated heart rate, but he showed no other signs  
of fear. Yes, he favored his mother in that way, too.  
  
"Why are you here?" he finally asked.  
  
Lacroix steepled his fingers and considered his answer. Finally he  
said, "Because he is dying. I wish to...say good-bye."  
  
"Is that all?" The man sounded skeptical.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Dad told us about you, you know, when he figured we were old enough  
to understand. He showed us a picture of his...family. He said you  
promised to never interfere with us after he became mortal again."  
  
"That is true. I have kept my promise, and intend to continue keeping  
it. One visit in sixty years is hardly 'interfering.'" Lacroix's pale  
blue eyes glittered as he stared at the man. "What else has Nicholas  
told you of me?"  
  
The man dropped his eyes, unable to withstand that icy gaze. "Not too  
much. He and Mum showed us things, some pictures, and told us just  
enough for us to understand why he was like he was, and why he didn't  
have any relatives. "*Real* relatives. He didn't even tell us your  
names. He warned us never to talk about it with anyone else." He  
shook his head. "That's all." He picked at the fabric of the chair  
arm, then looked up, troubled. 'No, not quite all. He said that you  
were his... closest friend."  
  
Lacroix closed his eyes. "And he is my son, even now."  
  
Silence descended on the small room, each man lost in his own  
memories. Lacroix could see indecision wavering on the man's face as  
he debated what to do. Finally he came to a decision and said, "You  
can see him, but first -- tell me your name. I need to know."  
  
Lacroix inclined his head slightly. It was a small price to pay.  
Besides, he no longer lived in Toronto and he knew this mortal could  
never find him. "Lucien Lacroix."  
  
"Thank you. I'm guessing you're not really French?"  
  
Lacroix allowed his lips to quirk slightly. "No." The man waited,  
obviously hoping for some elaboration, but none was forthcoming.  
Instead Lacroix asked, "And you are?"  
  
"Oh--I assumed you would know. I'm Robert de Brabant." At Lacroix's  
raised eyebrow, he laughed slightly. "Mum's idea. She knew Dad was  
old-fashioned enough to want the family name to continue, but he  
wasn't willing to change his own back. He was too well-established  
here to do that. So we three kids are de Brabants. Richard's the  
oldest, and there's my younger sister, Madeleine."   
  
Lacroix nodded and stood. "I see. Now, shall we?" He nodded in the  
direction of Nicholas' room.  
  
The two men walked down the hall in strained silence. At the door  
Robert halted and held up his hand to bar the way. "Before you go in,  
let me tell you about Dad. He's not always quite...in the moment.  
Sometimes he's with us, but a lot of the time his mind is in the  
past. He'll go for days without speaking English at all. Today hasn't  
been one of his better days."  
  
"I understand." Lacroix pushed open the door.  
  
A gangly teenager sat next to an old man, holding his hand and  
chatting amiably about a swim meet. The boy's hair was dark blond,  
thick and wavy, his eyes dark blue. He was so like his grandfather  
Lacroix caught his breath. And the old man...  
  
*Oh, Nicholas.* He was seated in a comfortable chair, dressed neatly  
in slacks and a thick sweater. He was rail-thin; time had worn him  
down to a shadow of himself. Although he still sat ramrod straight,  
his clothes hung on him. His hands were gnarled with snaking blue  
veins and arthritic joints. The blue eyes were now faded and the  
once-golden hair was ice-white and receding at the temples. His  
breath rasped in his lungs, and Lacroix could hear the thready,  
tremulous beat of his failing heart.  
  
Robert cleared his throat. "Nick, this is, uh, an old friend of your  
grandfather's, Mr. Lacroix. He just wants to visit for a few minutes.  
Let's go get a cup of coffee, okay?"  
  
"Sure, Dad." Nick held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr.  
Lacroix." He shook hands and then bent over and kissed his  
grandfather on the cheek. "Talk to you later, Granddad."  
  
Nicholas didn't respond. His vague glance passed over his grandson,  
then he looked away towards the large casement window.  
  
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Lacroix," said Robert, and quietly closed the  
door.  
  
Lacroix sat down next to Nicholas and clasped his hand. "Oh,  
Nicholas," he whispered, "was it worth it? Was a life in the sun  
worth this decay of body and mind? Are you so sure there is something  
else beyond?" Nicholas gave no response. He looked at Lacroix without  
curiosity or recognition, then continued gazing out the window at the  
moonlit night.  
  
Lacroix sighed. "I have missed you, mon fils. In all this time I have  
not taken another. There can be no other---and soon there will be no  
you." He laid his hand on Nicholas' withered cheek, forcing their  
gazes to meet. "I came here to tell you that I will keep my promise,  
and leave your family alone when you are gone. Your children are  
under my protection, and their children, and their children's  
children. As long as I am in this world, none of our kind will harm  
them. Do you understand?" He stared hard into the faded eyes, willing  
them to comprehend, trying to capture the mind that dwelt somewhere  
within.  
  
Nothing. Lacroix let his hand drop. He stood and went to look out the  
window over the frost-ruined gardens. The window faced east, and  
would receive the full light of the rising sun. He wondered if that  
was by choice or happenstance. "Did you ever miss the glories of the  
night, Nicholas? The freedom, the ecstasy, the power? The exhultation  
of flight? I could never understand your desire for mortality and  
death; I still don't. Did you ever regret your choice?"  
  
"Never." The voice was weak and cracked.  
  
Lacroix turned to find Nicholas' eyes on him, the familiar half-smile  
on his lips. "Still lecturing me, Lacroix? Some things never change."  
  
"Nicholas!" He went swiftly to his side and took his hand again.  
  
Nicholas squeezed gently. "I'm glad to see you, Lucien. It's been a  
long time."  
  
"Sixty years."  
  
"A moment to you. A lifetime for me. I did look for you once, you  
know, when Richard was born. No one would say anything."  
  
"As I instructed them. You could't have been surprised."  
  
"No, I wasn't. It's been a good life, Lucien, but it's time for it to  
be over. I want it to be over. I just wish..." Tears glistened in his  
eyes. "I'm ready. This body is used up. Ever since Natalie died..."  
He looked up at Lacroix. "What year is it? I've lost track of time.  
It's so much easier to simply drift off, it all runs together now,  
and I just don't care."  
  
"It's 2050."  
  
"Oh, God, it's been ten years. I miss her so much..."  
  
Lacroix smoothed back the white hair. "Soon, Nicholas, soon. You will  
be with her soon." But the reassurance fell on deaf ears. Nicholas  
was gone again, to a place no one else could visit. "J'taime," he  
murmured, and if he meant Natalie or Lacroix no one could tell.  
  
When Robert and his son returned to the room they found only  
Nicholas, sleeping in his chair, his face streaked with tears.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Late the next night Lacroix returned, a silent wraith through the  
window. The moon was full, shedding a pale white light across the  
landscape. His shadow fell across the slight figure in the bed, deep  
in a restless, uneasy sleep. Nicholas' breathing was noisy and  
labored: as Lacroix watched it stopped for almost a minute, then  
began again with a gasp in the dreadful rhythm of apnea.  
  
Lacroix stood by the bedside and once again stroked his son's hair.  
The mortal heart whose strong pulse he had first heard over eight  
hundred years ago was even weaker than it had been the night before.  
  
"You told me yesterday you wanted this life to be done, Nicholas,"  
Lacroix whispered to the slumbering form, "so you could go on to the  
next. You asked me to do this once before, and I refused, and rightly  
so. Like Romeo you were unaware your Juliet was not dead. But now she  
is, mon fils, and you have asked again. I am your closest friend,  
Nicholas, and your father. What else can I do?"  
  
He kissed Nicholas' brow. Then, with exquisite care, Lacroix took the  
recumbent head in his hands and twisted, just so. There was a faint  
'crack,' one final exhalation, and then nothing. The golden thread of  
their connection vanished as silently as a soap bubble.  
  
Lacroix smoothed the bedclothes, then folded a worn silver denarius  
into Nicholas' hand. "For the ferryman, mon fils," he whispered. "I  
am sure he will find it in your hand as easily as in your mouth. And  
there will be fewer questions this way." He felt suddenly hollow and  
utterly alone.  
  
As he slipped out the window faint words lingered in the chill air.  
  
"Damn you, Nicholas. Adieu."  
  
Finis  
  
=====================================================================  
Comments, criticisms, and offers of therapy to:  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
=====================================================================  
  
  
  



End file.
